One-Way
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: The Mighty Nein pick over a gruesome battlefield. Nott knows what it feels like to be a scavenger. Written for the prompt: "Anecdoche: A conversation in which everyone is talking, but nobody is listening."


For the prompt:

_**Anecdoche**: A conversation in which everyone is talking, but nobody is listening._

* * *

Nott turns slowly, pivoting on one foot in a way that sparks a distant memory of dancing, awkward and gangling and unaccountably embarrassed, as a young girl alone in her room. It had quite literally been a lifetime ago.

Now, in place of her own off-key humming, what she hears is the slow rumble of thunder somewhere in the distance, the rasping whisper of wind in tall grasses, and the soft groans and wails of dozens of people taking too long to die.

Jester, Caduceus, and Yasha are wading separately in silence through the battlefield; she can see the faint glow of their healing spells glimmering, flickering like matches before a strong wind. A sharp yelp draws her attention to another flare of light, where two of her friends are crouched beside a writhing form. One of the combatants. Beau is wrapping bandages around the stranger's lesser wounds, and Caleb... well, Caleb is doing what Caleb does best.

Pivoting away, Nott glances up at Fjord, who's standing frozen beside her, one hand drawn up to his mouth. He's not helping, she thinks, and feels a surge of disgust so profound that she knows it can only be misdirected self-loathing.

Because she's not helping, either.

The Nein had watched much of this battle from the sidelines, wary of the size of the forces clashing, and honestly, Nott's still not entirely sure which side they're supposed to be fighting for. They've settled uncomfortably into the role of scavengers when the opposing forces are this strong, the stakes this high. They hide in the shadows, and only move out to try to help with the dying left behind, picking up what supplies they can muster along the way. They're not ready for this, yet. They're not ready for any of this.

Nott's hand, as though of its own accord, has pulled out the flask that's gone half-forgotten in the past few weeks. She stares at her reflection, distorted in its gleaming surface, then sighs and holds it out, nudging Fjord in the side. He takes it without looking, swigs a long gulp, then strides forward.

Shivering, Nott follows behind.

Fjord crouches beside the first body they come to, a human with dark eyes staring blankly from under his helm. He raps a knuckle against the breastplate, and Nott's not sure whether it's an awkward gesture of comfort or an attempt to gauge the quality of the dead man's armor. "Sorry," Fjord says, softly. "I promise we'll be able to help more soon."

The part of Nott that's practically vibrating with the need to do something, anything, wants to call him out on making an impossible promise to unhearing ears, but she also knows she hasn't been invited to this particular conversation. She digs her hands into her pockets, finds a button there, and presses it hard between her thumb and index finger, watching Fjord dig through the corpse's belongings.

Jester passes by, and Nott meanders into her orbit, following her over toward where Yasha is sitting beside a wild-eyed human woman in tattered leathers, murmuring something that to Nott's ears sounds like prayer, her gaze fixed on the distant stormclouds. Jester, her expression uncharacteristically solemn, touches Yasha's shoulder in passing. "We've got five stable enough to move over there. Should be able to get them to the hospital. I'll check for supplies."

Yasha is silent until Jester sighs and walks away, and then she says, softly, "You okay, Jes?"

Jester keeps walking, showing no sign of having heard the question.

Nott turns away and scoops an unclaimed dagger from the ground, sticky with blood. Wipes it absently on the edge of her cloak as she walks. Picks her way through the carnage toward Caleb and Beau.

Caleb has a hard look on his face that Nott's seen on many different people over the years, one so often described as 'determined' when what's really meant is 'cold'. He's muttering instructions to Beau with the cruel efficiency of a field surgeon. The stink of burning flesh in the vicinity overpowers even the heavy tang of blood in the air. They're working on a hulking woman who's got some orc in her veins, judging by the greenish cast of her skin.

All three of them, Nott notices, are doing a poor job of hiding the shaking in their hands.

"C'mon, man," Beau says, conversationally but with her voice wavering. "Just pass out. It'll be so much easier for you. I know this sucks, but no questions asked, we'll drop you at a hospital next town we hit, okay?"

The woman snarls, too engulfed in pain to hear a word of it. Caleb ducks away from a flailing arm. "The bleeding's started again," he says, rasping like he's the one who's been screaming. "I am going to cauterize this. It won't be pleasant."

Nott can't tell if he's trying to warn the injured woman, Beau, or himself. Nobody seems particularly inclined to listen.

She turns away before the bad stuff happens and starts to run. It's what she does best.

"Whoa," says Caduceus, snatching her by the arm as she stumbles past him. "C'mon, stay here and breathe for a second."

Nott slips out of his grasp, but does as he asks, absently picking at her nails with the dagger, staring up at the sky because the stuff at her feet doesn't seem like a great alternative just now. And then, because it's only Mr. Clay in earshot, she hums a few bars of the tune rattling around in her head.

She's seen so many battles. She's seen goblin raids. Worse still, she's seen the things done deliberately in small rooms, without the desperate chaos or convenient excuse of powerful factions clashing. But there's something uniquely terrible about her friends—her _friends_—talking into the void of this horrible scene, getting nothing but echoes in reply.

"This is awful," she says, softly, staring at the wisps of cloud that seem to be racing to join the storm on the horizon. "I don't think I'm enough of a monster for this place."

Caduceus scratches at the scruff on his chin. She thinks that if he says one word about the cycle of life, she might just figure out the logistics involved in punching someone twice her height right in the fucking face. But he just shakes his head and smiles crookedly. "We're helping where we can, and I think it's okay that it doesn't feel like enough. If it did, I'd be reconsidering the company I keep."

Nott lets out her breath in a ragged sigh. Sticks the dagger in her belt. It's got a good weight to it.

As she turns to begin the slow trudge back to the others, Caduceus says, "Nott?" He stays quiet until she turns around, drags the silence out until she meets his eyes and realizes, with a start, that he seems lost for words. He fumbles a moment longer, then shrugs. Smiles a fainter—but more genuine—smile. "I hear you."

Nott snorts and turns back to watching her footing as she picks her way across the battlefield, swift-footed and graceful, as though moving to the beat of some half-remembered song.


End file.
